


When the Paint Dries

by iwakehungryaftersoundsleep



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Art, Graffiti, Harry paints self portraits, London, Louis loves graffiti, M/M, deep down they only want to paint each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-18 18:52:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4716755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwakehungryaftersoundsleep/pseuds/iwakehungryaftersoundsleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is the art world's darling.  Louis paints graffiti under the cover of darkness.  They find each other on the dirty streets of London, and two worlds collide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Paint Dries

The moon watched London. She watched the busy streets, the sparkling lights, the grit and dust of eight million lonely souls. She watched girls falling out of bars in packs, their heels breaking on pavement, their skin glistening in sweat. She saw tourists blindly following Google Maps, staring at their phones as they failed to absorb the beating heart of the city. She watched a birthday party on a roof, and smokers in Kensington Park. Her eyes glided private parks only accessible to those with a key. She watched a dog scavenge in some trash, and a girl look down from the railing of a bridge debating her next step. She watched the happiest people in the world and she watched others search the city streets for an answer they would never find.

She watched a boy in a fancy suit, YSL perhaps, down his champagne in single gulp. A boy prodigy, he stood in the alley outside a party thrown for him, the haute art crowd oohing and ahhhing inside over paintings they didn't understand. He waited for somebody to notice he was missing, waited for a reason to return to the wolves.

She watched another boy running from the police, hoping over a fence as if he were climbing the stairs to heaven. A single can of spray paint was left behind for the cops to grab, Cinderella's glass slipper. She watched him run across roof tops to his five little sisters, hurriedly wiping the paint from under his fingernails.

The moon watched London, watched two boys searching for something to hold onto.  She watched them tumbling around and towards each other as they each looked for the same thing, and she wished she could turn away.

One night, as the moon watched, two boys found art.

 

 

"Why can't I just paint today?" Harry asked, screwing the lid onto his can of turpentine, his hands almost shaking with frustration. "I thought the point of being a successful artist was that you got to paint without worrying about money. But you keep dragging me across this godforsaken city instead of letting me breathe!"

"You know why Andy Warhol was so successful? Why his paintings still sell for millions? Why he has a fucking museum dedicated only to him?" Perrie asked, staring Harry down. "It wasn't because he was an insanely talented person. He had talent, yes. But there were talented people in every shithole fishing village in England and every mining town in America. He knew how to promote himself. He threw parties, he made famous friends, he charmed the entire art world at the same time that he was sucking out every penny it contained."

"I don't want to be rich. I just want to paint."

"I want you to paint too. But I also want you to fulfill your potential. I championed you, I gave you a career. No artist is successful without their gallery, and no gallery can survive if they aren't making money. You want to be able to just paint, you need to be more than just a prodigy with a couple successful shows and good press," Perrie said. She tossed her purple hair over her shoulder and picked her way across Harry's studio to stare out the window at the street below. "It's not enough to be buzzing, to be trendy. You need to be so established that they couldn't scrape your name off museum walls with all diamonds in the world."

"I get more established by making great paintings!"

"No, you get more established by putting on some clothing and charming the people from Art Forum today. You're one of the most charming people in this business. You charmed me when you were a curly little sixteen year old with a couple of canvases, and nineteen year old Harry better be even more charming."

Harry sighed, untying his apron and hanging it up. It was practically a Jackson Pollock at this point, covered in the same swirls and smudges of cadmium yellow and cobalt that always colored his skin by the end of the day. Perrie had turned away pointedly, having long given up making comments about his decision to always paint in the nude.

The magazine writers at Art Forum would probably find it charming, another artistic eccentricity.

Harry hated art critics.

 

 

Louis hated art critics.

One of the negatives of working at Rossellini's Italian was that it was right next to the Art Forum office, so they were always filling up his section with their pretentiously alternative clothing, babbling about Ai WeiWei dropping his breakfast plate or whatever else was supposedly cutting edge. If only Liam had known dropping things was high art-- maybe then Louis would be sharing a flat in Primrose Hill with Li's millions instead of receiving incomprehensible texts from him about how he "spilt a fullllllllll! Tub of pasta on the floor" while Louis was trying to set tables.

The lunch rush was just winding down when Grimshaw arrived in a flurry of umbrella and flapping coat, dragging another poor soul behind him. Art Forum's Editor-in-Chief was, in Louis' opinion, a complete arsehole, and his articles were nowhere near as interesting as Chris Moyle's had been. He also tipped badly.

Louis pitied whatever poor sod he was interviewing today. Grimshaw liked to do his interviews at Rossellini's. Young art world hopefuls would meet him at the local restaurant hoping for a complimentary article in the most influential art magazine in the world, the type of recognition that could make their career. They were inevitably sent away close to tears, Grimshaw's acerbic wit terrifying them more than any judgement of mediocrity he would inevitably print. And Louis got to witness every gory minute, swooping in with extra napkins (tissues for the weak) for the interviewee.

Louis' eyes widened as Lou showed the pair to a table in Louis' section. The man--no boy, he looked late teens at most-- following Grimshaw was a long line of curves and edges clothed in dark skinny jeans that displayed a very nice butt (Louis considered himself a connoisseur of such things) and a see-through black shirt that barely hid a smattering of dark ink that traced the boy's defined abs and biceps. The long, dark curls didn't hurt the boy's bad boy image.

Louis swallowed heavily. He looked like sex.

Grimshaw clearly thought so too, his barking laugh echoing through the room at whatever comment the boy had delivered with a smirk and a flash of dimples.

When Louis introduced himself as their waiter, Grimshaw barely acknowledged him. The boy, on the other hand, turned his entire body towards Louis and flashed him a massive grin.

The smile was so bright Louis almost felt bad for the way he blushed when Louis asked to see his ID. Harry Edward Styles was one month under eighteen-- illegal, then.  But Louis would let it slide, just this once.  Or maybe every other time a cute boy smiled at him, but who was counting?  

Harry wanted the fruitiest drink on the menu. Grimshaw didn't comment, nor did he pay attention to Harry's wheedling attempt to get extra umbrellas.

"Expecting rain, are you?" Louis quipped. A very, very bad joke, but he'd made worse in his time. When he was six, he spent a week answering every question with the word "carrots." In hindsight it hadn't been that funny, but his mother never let the joke go. She used to ask every prospective date for their opinion on carrots, before informing them that a passion for carrots was a prerequisite of a relationship with her son. Louis stopped bringing dates home.

Harry looked out at the pouring rain, frowning slightly, before responding, "No, but one needs a shade for sun as blinding as this."

Louis smiled and filled the water glasses and then escaped back to the kitchen, away from barely legal boys with voices like sandpaper and chocolate at the same time who wanted three more umbrellas than would fit in the glass.

"I'm glad to see you're being stricter with IDs, Louis," Lou muttered, swatting Louis on the arse with a wink. "Didn't you know curiosity killed the cat?"

"And satisfaction brought it back."

"Be careful, boy." Lou said, twirling back to her position near the door.

Louis buzzed through the next hour, delivering entrees and refilling wine glasses.  Patrons trickled in and out, but the pair at the window table stayed talking, lingering over spaghetti.  Every now and then Louis heard bits and pieces of that slow voice talking, murmuring almost seductively about cats and Stevie Nicks.  Never once did he here a word about art, and Louis began to wonder if this was not only where Grimshaw brought interviewees but also where he brought dates.  Rossellini's wasn't what Louis would have picked, but nothing about Grimshaw is what Louis would have picked, so who was he to judge?

Louis had just taken the pair's order of two cheesecakes when Grimshaw received a call and whirled out in a panic, apologies tossed over his shoulder in a flurry of shouts.  

"Trouble in paradise?"  Louis asked as he refilled Harry's water.

Harry looked at him, a faint crease in his brow displaying his confusion.

"Boyfriend, isn't he?"

"Oh, no.  This was a work meeting."

"About cats?"

"Cats are very important.  My cat is most definitely my boss."

"You say it like you have one cat, but you definitely strike me as the type to have at least ten."

"Was it the fruity drinks?"

"Nah, that tats.  Definitely compensating for something.  Your jeans don't hide much so I know you aren't lacking there, so I'd guess they're compensating for your Crazy Cat Lad lifestyle."

Harry burst out laughing, his mouth wide.

"Do you still want that cheesecake?"  Louis asked, noting that Grimshaw had already tossed a handful of bills on the table.

 "Is it still the best in the city?"

"Some have claimed that, yes."

"Than I'll have to try it.  Just for the experience."

"Promise you won't instagram it?"  Louis asked, smirking.  He seemed like the artsy-fartsy instagram type. 

"But what if its #FoodPorn?"  Harry asked, pouting.  "The world deserves to know."

"I think the world will be fine with a bit less porn on the web.  Think of the children!"

"True, true.  I try to keep my instagram feed family friendly."  Harry said, nodding seriously.  "Sometimes."

"And the other times?"  Louis asked, leaning against the table slightly adjust the already perfect floral arrangement.  

"I paint self-portraits."  Harry said solemnly, as if that should explain things.

"Is your face not family friendly?"

"My dick isn't."

Louis blinked.  "How accurate are your portraits?"

Harry's mouth stretched into a smirk, his green eyes boring into Louis'.  "Very accurate.  I'm reknowned for my mix of photographic accuracy and animalistic wildness."  He hesitated for the first time, the suave persona slipping.  "I think... maybe it was bestial wildness?  I'm not sure...I could ask Perrie, maybe, but she'd--"

"Is your dick in museums then, barely legal Harry Styles?"  Louis interrupted.

He ducked his head bashfully. "Nah.  The children, remember?"

"How could I forget?"  Louis asked drily.  With a dry swallow, he backed away from the table, forcing his mind away from Harry's dimples and back to his job.  "One cheesecake, coming right up."

When he reappeared with the requested cheesecake, a truly glorious piece of desert, his customer was bent over his phone typing frantically.  He didn't appear to notice Louis, muttering something indiscernible ("Handbag branch"...?  What was that supposed to mean?) as Louis hovered patiently.

Louis coughed loudly and Harry jumped, slipping his phone into his pocket and smiling brightly again at Louis.  Louis' heart definitely did  _not_ skip a beat at that smile.  

Louis practically dropped the plate in front of Harry, the whipped cream wobbling delicately, as he tried to burn all feelings from his might and his lower regions.  

As Louis withdrew his hand, Harry suddenly grabbed his wrist, locking Louis against the table.  Harry stared intently at Louis' wrist, ignoring Louis' tugging attempts to regain control of his limb.

"Mate, I know I have beautiful wrist bones, but do you mind letting go?"  Louis asked, ignoring the tingling warmth where Harry's fingers brushed his skin.  He had very large hands, easily able to wrap around Louis' wrist.  It definitely  _wasn't_ a turn on.

"What brand of paint do you use?"  He asked, releasing Louis' wrist at last.

Louis looked at his arm.  He had missed a spot when he washed his arm, and there was a clear splash of red spray paint.

"Montana," Louis said, thinking of the cans of spray paint that currently loaded down his backpack.  Montana is by far the best brand, and Louis turned his nose up at any who used something different.  "Not exactly the oil paints you  _artistes_ use," he added sharply.

Harry shrugged.  "I like to be able to build.  Feel the texture."

"I'm sure I'd love to feel the texture, if it wasn't fifteen pounds a tube.  And slow and boring."

"Slow isn't always boring."

"Waiting four hundred years for the paint to dry is."

"Did you know some of the paint on Van Gogh's pieces still hasn't dried?  Because its so thick."

"All you oil painters are so thick.  And stodgy."

"Would you still think I was stodgy if I told you I paint in the nude?"

"Maybe I'll bring you painting with me sometime then.  How do you feel about some public exposure?  Exhibitionism?  I was thinking Bedford Square needed a makeover."

Niall slipped behind Louis and muttered, "You have other tables."

Louis nodded, ditching Harry's glinting green eyes even as the boy opened his mouth to respond.

 

 

"Shit!"  Niall shouted, sliding into Louis and knocking him against Harry's now empty table.  Louis' hand knocked over the vase of flowers, water pouring over the crumpled bills of his tip and the check itself.  Louis scooped both up, trying to shake off the water.  Wet money was still money, but that didn't mean he didn't prefer his money dry.

"Are you kidding me, Niall?"  Louis asked, turning around to help Niall pick up the plate he had dropped.  Niall looked so forlorn Louis broke into a grin, ruffling his hair and getting up to find a mop.  "Take care of your table, I'll get this, mate."

He stuffed his tip in his pocket and went to put the bill up front when he spotted the note on the back, written in elegant, loopy curls.  

It was just a phone number.  But the water damage had blurred last three digits blurred into nothing.

Louis swore violently.  "Niall!"

 

 

Louis tore down the alleyway, checking over his shoulders anxiously as he made it into the main street.  The policeman was gaining speed.  He was one of those young ones who wanted to show off by nabbing a young graffitiing hoodlum.  By far the worst sort of filth.

He knocked into someone, a few cans flying out of his bag in the collision.  Louis scrambled back to his feet, his eyes widening as he recognized the boy from the restaurant a few days earlier.  

"Louis?"

"Run!"  Louis shouted, already booking it down the road.  Harry took one glance at the shouting policeman tearing towards him and followed, running frantically to keep up.  He began to trip and Louis grabbed his arm, tugging him up and forward, faster and faster.  Despite Harry's obscenely long legs, Louis had to drag him forward, pulling Harry upward when his toes managed to trip over what seemed like every crack in the sidewalk. 

Louis pulled Harry down a side street and then jumped over the pile of trash bags he knew wouldn't be collected until the morning, tugging Harry behind the temporary shelter.  Harry opened his mouth, and Louis slapped his hand over Harry's lips to keep him quiet, glancing away from the wide green eyes reflected in the moonlight.

Louis heard it when the cop rounded the corner at last.  The cop took a few steps down the street, his boots squeaking in the wet London streets.  Eventually the steps receded, a muttered "bloody hoodlums" reverberating down the street.  Harry stirred, and Louis' other hand reached out to grip him tightly, keeping him still.  After another two minutes, Louis relaxed, finally taking his hand off Harry's mouth.

"I think we're safe now."

"What did you do, rob a bank?"  Harry asked.  "Are you a criminal?"

"I'm an artist."  Louis said sharply, waiting for the art world dismissal of graffiti he knew would come.  He knew Harry saw him as a waiter; a good one, mind you, but a waiter none the less.  "Except I do it for me, and the people who can't pay millions to own my vision."

"Do you think they own me?"  Harry asked, the tightening in the corners of his lips the only sign of his displeasure.  "Because my art is my life, instead of my hobby?"

"I think that art is worth more than a price tag and some fame."

"Fame?  You think that's what I want?"

"I think you were charming Nick Grimshaw so hard he was using a menu to hide his boner."

"Maybe I was attracted to him."

"Which is why you left me your number."

"A mistake."  Harry said, his eyes flashing.  

Louis knew he was being unfair, knew that he had attacked Harry for no reason.  But that innocent "are you a criminal?" brought him back to all of the boys in university with Harry's posh accent who knew they were going places; who knew that Louis wasn't.  It brought him back to the art school acceptance, to Lottie's school fees, to the empty bank accounts and the extra jobs and the "we just don't have the money for tuition, Louis."

"It was definitely a mistake," Harry continued, running a ring festooned hand through his hair agitatedly, his lips twisting bitterly.  "I'm sure you know far more about setting tables for nice dates than actually attending them; I wouldn't want to bring you out of your comfort zone."

Louis twisted, shoving Harry against the trash bag, his arm pressed to Harry's chest as he bared his teeth.  "Oh, I assure you my comfort zone encompasses many uncomfortable...positions.  I'm _quite_ flexible."

Harry's breath hitched and he flipped Louis with one arm, reversing their positions and trapping Louis bodily against the rubbish bags piled beneath him.  Louis knew it should smell horrible, but all he could smell was Harry.  He had an indescribable scent, musky and sharp, everywhere.  And then Harry himself was everywhere, his hands ghosting over Louis' body as if searching for something, his mouth hovering over Louis' lips.    

When Harry's mouth crashed into Louis', it was hard and unyielding.  Louis breathed him in, equally frantic, searching for something in Harry, finding it.  Louis eyes ghosted shut and the moon and stars blinked out of existence, the city sounds quieting until there were only the moans and growls deep in Harry's throat.  There was a beautiful, vibrant world; then there was only Harry.

 

If it was another, better world, they would meet again at the park.  They would fall into talking; Louis would make a joke, and Harry would laugh so hard his entire body shook.  Harry would walk him home, and they would pass one of Louis' pieces on a quiet street near Chelsea.  Louis wouldn't point it out, but Harry would see the flick of his eyes, would know it was his, would pause to stare at the boy turning into a bird, growing bigger than any little eight-year-old from Doncaster ever would, and taking into the sky.  He would see the color and the shadow and the lines, and his eyes would widen.  But he would not comment, knowing Louis didn't want his words. Louis would show him his art personally one day, explaining each peace, not realizing that Harry had fallen in love with it ages before, that Harry knew what Louis' heart had painted before Louis even tried to ever turn his pieces into letters and sounds.

Harry would refuse to show Louis the paintings for his next show. Louis would laugh, later, as the art critics praised Harry's first step outside of self-portraits, as they would proclaim Harry's skill as he painted an idealized man. Nick would wonder, as he attended the gallery show with a model best friend in one hand and champagne in the other, why the model for Harry's looked so familiar; but he would dismiss it because there were other, shinier things to wonder about.

Louis would finish school because he wanted to, and he would get a job as an art teacher because his sisters were grown and he missed children, and sometimes when he went on to the roof of his flat at night, Harry would be there curled up in a blanket, staring at the moon.  Harry would stop giving interviews and going to parties, would slip out of that diamond bright world that sparkled but was so hard and cutting it could slice the hardest heart.  Instead he would have a garden, and his paints, and no clothes.  Louis would slip in to Harry's studio sometimes, and watch Harry as he painted, watch the way his entire world widened and narrowed at the same time until he could only speak through the swish of a brush against fresh canvas.  The way Louis could only speak through the hiss of a can in the heart of the ever changing world.  

But they would not need to speak, for they would see each other with the truth found only in the eyes of the artist.  They would see each other's flaws and perfections, their shadows and highlights, the dark bits of past.  Louis' humor and Harry's kindness, the way Louis took his tea, Harry's obsession with Stevie Nicks.  The little things.

They would meet again, and the world would explode in color.  Color only they could see.

 

But this isn't that world.  Instead, there is only an afternoon in a restaurant and a short night in an empty street, bodies fumbling together.  There is only sparking lips and biting teeth, bruises and bitterness.  Hatred for the world, taken out on each other.  There is attraction so strong it's almost painful.  There are only a few kind words muttered in the heat of the night, promises that are truth for only a second.  

There is only a moment when two moon-drenched faces stare at each other, their eyes flickering as they each commit the other's face to memory, burning flushed cheeks and tousled hair into their souls.  

There is only the coming of the dawn and two boys walking in opposite directions, disappearing into the whirlwind of London.

They see each other again only in the curve of a painted cheek and the flash of blue eyes, the dark curls of a graffiti angel, and the lips of a portrait auctioned for millions.  They see each other in glimpses, in a curly-haired stranger on the tube, an arched brow in the crowds outside Harrods.  

They wander through the endless midnight and tell themselves they are searching for art.  But they already lived art in a single moment of dirt and grime and London and a temporary lover's lips.  The only true art they will ever know. 

One night, as the moon watched, two boys found art.  In the morning, they each walked away.  Art was collected with the rest of rubbish.  Eventually, art began to rot.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!


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